


Sunday Candy

by Strawberry_Sweetheart



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: I wrote this in line at horror night, M/M, Pancakes, Sunday mornings, and a terrible flirt, lazy day, not today demons, pure fluff, steve is a messy eater
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-06
Updated: 2019-10-06
Packaged: 2020-11-26 06:31:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20925713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Strawberry_Sweetheart/pseuds/Strawberry_Sweetheart
Summary: Waking up on Sundays means Billy making pancakes from scratch, and if he begs sweet enough and coos with his pouty lips just right, it means sliced summer strawberries on top and a sinful amount of whip cream and honey.— —The best days, if you were to ask either of them, are the ones were they can wake up slowly to each other.





	Sunday Candy

**Author's Note:**

> Posted on my tumblr too @billy-baby

Sunlight drifted through the cracks between the curtains, illuminating the dancing dust bunnies that spun in the air and warming the skin that peaked through the white linen blankets. Summer is hot and sticky, but at such early hours, the rays feel like gentle kisses coaxing them awake instead of blaringly hot and persistently scorching. 

Steve squinted against the light that fell across his eyes, slinging his arm over his face and blinking back the spots of light from behind his lids, groaning as he did so. Billy has never been a heavy sleeper, so his slightest squirming and moans of protest cause the other so grip him tighter in his arms, dragging him back against him and burying his nose in Steve’s neck, huffing against him with a ticklish breath. 

Waking up is a sluggish and lazy endeavor. Sunday’s are their days off where they have no commitments that drag them off their plush pillows or rip them away from the soft enticing arms of their lover. Waking up on Sundays mean soft kisses from Cupid bow lips that travel from his neck to his shoulder. Waking up means closed-eye kisses that are bitter with sleep, but sweet with love. Waking up means being Billy entangled between his legs, wrapped up so completely in limbs that it’s impossible to decipher where one of them begins and the other ends.

Waking up on Sunday’s means Billy making pancakes from scratch, and if he begs sweet enough and coos with his pouty lips just right, it means sliced summer strawberries on top and a sinful amount of whip cream and honey. 

He watches him, now, through droopy hooded eyelids drowsy with the remenants of sleep, slumped at his designated favorite stool at the breakfast bar, the hand under chin is the only thing proping up his head and keeping it from lulling back. He watches as Billy buzzes around the kitchen like a busy bumble bee, humming under his breath as he sifts the flour and sugar together. Billy has always been more the morning person between the two of them. It’s inhuman how he could go from a dream state to wide awake and ready to tackle the day. Sometimes — _god_, sometimes Billy selfishly wakes up at the first light of dawn and goes for a jog around the block, leaving Steve all alone with only the whisper of his warmth lingering in their sheets.

"Stevie-baby, have you seen the honey?" Billy flips a pancake as he opens a cabinet overhead. The aroma pulls a soft smile on Steve’s lips which widen into a crooked grin.

"Yeah, I’m looking right at it." Billy looks over his shoulder just in time to catch Steve oogling his ass and throwing him a wink. He flicks a dash of flour at him, making Steve yelp indignantly even though it is no where near to reaching him.

Breakfast consists of piles of pancakes that drip cascades of honey down the sides, and, in Steve’s case, consists of a mountain of whipped cream with glossy strawberries sticking out from fluffy white clouds. Outside a breeze blows through the apartment from open windows making the sheer white curtains sway. To "take advantage of the fresh morning before the sun decides to cook my balls" as Billy had so elequently explained when he had drawn the curtains and pushed open the windows that had that glisten with gleaming dew drops just an hour prior. The breeze carries with it the sounds of morning traffic, far off, far enough where the bustling city with all its hastyness and fast passing living can’t reach them.

Billy makes a remark about Steve’s eating habits as, as always, when he shoves a strawberry past his lips into his already full mouth, storing it into his stretched cheeks like a chipmunk, in a way that leaves elegance and class severely lacking.

Steve swallows his mouth full and says: "Strange, you never seem to complain about anything involving my mouth before."

Billy sticks his tongue out at him in response and Steve retaliates by successfully stealing a fork full from Billy’s plate, dodging a defensive hand wielding its own fork that tried to combat the invasion. Food from Billy’s plate always seems to taste better, like it’s peppered in victory.

After breakfast, Steve licked his fingers and lapped at Billy’s sugar-coated lips, kissing him as they stumbled backwards with frantically moving hands exploring underneath tattered sleeping shirts, collapsing on the cushions and hitting their heads on the armrest. Billy laughed as he rubbed the spot of Steve’s scalp that bore the brunt of the impact, Steve makes a show of whining.

"Jerk. You know I bruise like peach. You should say sorry to me, I tripped over your big feet."

"I don’t think you have to worry about any bruises, pretty boy. That thick hair acts like your own permanent helmet." And as to make a point, he knocks his knuckles against Steve’s head lightly; Steve smacks his arm.

"Besides," he continued, "you know what they say about big feet." He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively at him, snickering at Steve’s face scrunching up in mock disgust.

"What do they say? The bigger the feet the bigger an asshole?" Steve looks up at him slyly with a quirked eyebrow and lopsided chershire grin.

Billy rolls his eyes and insistently reminds Steve that he, in fact, loves Billy’s ass and everything else he has to offer by grinding down slowly on top of him. Their kisses are languid and slow; they sigh into each others mouth contently. They’re in no hurry. After all, they’ve got all the time in the world to be in each other’s arms, breathing the other in.


End file.
